Ear-Witness Page 5

  My body had turned to stone; Flavia had to pull and push me up the steps. “Move!” she hissed. “We have to leave! Fast!”

  We stumbled down the hall to the front door, where I stopped dead. “The baby!” I said. “I can’t leave! My mother would kill me!”

  Flavia shoved me aside. “Then hide,” she said. “I will bring Carlos.”

  A four-month-old baby, asleep, isn’t much company when you’re terrified. When the screen door in the back bedroom slammed shut and I knew the man was in the apartment, I almost followed Flavia down the front stairs, but I couldn’t do it, even though I wanted to more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything. Instead, I moved quietly back down the hall, counting doors again. Coat closet. Linen closet. Bathroom, the room I needed the most. Baby’s room.

  I heard him now. Footsteps. There was a light too, a flashlight. So much for hiding. The beam flickered around the back bedroom, then down the hall. Shadows, like birds, fluttered towards me. I tip toed into the baby’s room, and pushed my hands through the slats of the crib, in and out, moving further and further up the mattress. At last, I felt a foot, a tiny foot. She was lying crosswise, at the very top of the bed. I ran my hand up her leg to her warm, gently breathing body and pulled her across the sheet towards me. As I bent over the top of the railing, it dug painfully into my middle. Brianna murmured when I picked her up.

  The footsteps came closer and closer, then stopped. He was in the doorway, just a few feet away from me. The beam of the flashlight played around the room, passing me, then moving back, searching me out. I cringed into a corner, there was no other place to go. The light found my face, and blinded me. It glared steadily for what seemed like hours but could only have been seconds. My teeth rattled.

  “Don’t kill me,” I cried. “I’m only the babysitter!”

  My knees collapsed under me and I sank to the floor, unsteady with the baby’s extra weight. The light followed. This was the end, for both of us. I knew it. He was the murderer, back to bump off the witness to his crime. The innocent person he thought was the witness. The innocent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Brianna twisted her head away from the light, and whimpered. I held her tighter. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, almost deafening me. Then the man whispered something, or he laughed, I couldn’t tell which; a familiar noise, like a gush of air escaping from a half-blown balloon or the hiss of a cornered cat. It was followed by darkness. Steps, running steps, retreated down the hall. The screen door banged shut and heavy thudding noises moved down the stairs, becoming fainter and fainter, until there was silence. Brianna was awake now, and scared. She howled. I covered her with tears of relief.

  Then Flavia was back, and behind her, Carlos. They were holding candles stuck in kitchen glasses. Carlos was fierce, with a huge carving knife in one hand and a smaller one in his teeth.

  “He’s gone,” I said. The candlelight was gentle, and hid my face. “We’re fine.”

  CHAPTER 7

  After the killer left we paraded carefully down the front stairs to the Orellanas’ apartment. As soon as we got there I handed Brianna over to Flavia, and collapsed into the depths of a huge armchair. Mrs. Orellana was lighting more candles, setting them on little saucers and placing them around the room.

  Carlos folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Somebody should do something about the lights,” he said. “We can’t stay in the dark all night.”

  Was it my imagination or was everybody looking at me? I didn’t want to think about the lights. I didn’t want to think about anything, but I forced myself to respond. “You can turn the power for the whole building off and on with a big switch,” I said. “It’s in the basement.”

  “Where?” Carlos asked.

  “If you go down the stairs and keep going,” I said, “you’ll come to the back wall. The fuse box is right there. It’s not hard to find,” I added.

  Nobody said anything. Nobody volunteered.

  What I should have said was I’m not going. What I actually said was “I’m not going alone.” Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy. A few minutes later Carlos and I were standing side by side in the front lobby. When I yanked the basement door open, a quick scraping sound echoed up the stairs.

  “Something’s down there,” I whispered.

  We stood quietly, listening. “Perhaps it was a mouse,” Carlos said. “Or a rat.”

  We held our candles out in front of us, and even though the stairs were wide enough for two, Carlos let me go ahead. I made my way down, right foot ahead each time, left catching up. On the nineteenth step I felt a change. The railing ended and I stepped onto the cement floor of the basement.

  “We’re here,” I said. “The hall runs from front to back, like in the apartments. There’s a fire exit at the other end, but hardly anybody uses it.”

  On the way to the fuse box we passed the closed doors of the furnace room, the storage room, the garbage room and the laundry room. The laundry room? I moved my candle so I could take a better look. The door was shut. But how could it be, when it was always, always kept open? Wedged open, with a little triangle of wood, because of all the heat and steam.

  Panic hit me, hard. The noise I heard when we stood at the top of the stairs wasn’t a mouse. It wasn’t even a rat. It was the dull scraping sound wood makes when it’s dragged over cement; the sound of a door being forced shut, a door that had been propped open for years. My mind was jumping all over the place but I knew one thing for sure. That door hadn’t moved by itself.

  The man in Tammi’s apartment had run down the back stairs, and the back stairs ended right beside the fire exit from the basement. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out who was behind that door.

  I made a quick decision. If the murderer wanted to hide in the laundry, that was just fine with me. What I was going to do was turn the power back on. Then I was going to get out of there, as fast as my legs would carry me.

  The fuse box was in a cubbyhole near the back door. I held my candle up to it, and pointed to the master switch.

  “It is too high to reach,” Carlos said. “I will lift you, and you can do it.”

  I grimaced into the dark. “I’m pretty heavy,” I said.

  “You are perfect,” Carlos said. He put his candle on the floor and squatted beside it.

  I climbed onto his back and swung my legs over his shoulders. Carlos grunted. Then he grunted some more, and I swayed upwards until the big switch was right in front of me. It was painted red. I pushed with one hand at the side that was sticking up. Then I pushed again. I couldn’t move it. It didn’t help that my hand was shaking.

  “Can you take my candle?” I said. My voice was shaking too.

  Carlos reached up, and as I lowered the glass, the flame blew from side to side and shadows jumped across the wall. I pushed the switch again, really hard, with two hands this time. There was a loud snap, and light poured down from the hall fixture at the top of the stairs. The basement was still dark.

  I slid from Carlos’s shoulders to the floor. When I stepped away from him, his hand pulled at my arm.

  “Jess,” he whispered. “Don’t go.” His hand moved up to my shoulder. “I want to kiss you.”

  “Now?” I said. I swung my eyes towards the laundry and swallowed hard.

  “You did not say no,” he said. “So I believe you mean yes.” His face moved towards me and his mouth pressed softly against the side of my mine, sort of half on and half off. Probably I wasn’t doing it right, but he didn’t seem to mind. When I pulled away, it wasn’t because I didn’t like kissing him, it was because I couldn’t concentrate. I kept listening for that door, for the scraping noise it would make when it opened.

  “You can’t stop now!” Carlos said.

  “I have to!” I answered. It wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was There’s a murderer in the laundry! What I wanted to do was run. So that’s what I did.

  “Tea, with honey,
” Mrs. Orellana said. “Perhaps toast too.”

  I nodded gratefully. Although the Orellanas’ apartment was warm, I was having temperature problems. I was hot, then cold, then hot again, or hot with the shivers. Even worse, there were constant replays going on in my head: glass breaking and a hand coming through a window; a light shining in my face; a killer laughing at me.

  “We should call the police,” I said. “I think that man is still in the building.” Then I explained about the laundry door.

  Mrs. Orellana set the kettle on the stove, and looked at Carlos, who slouched down in his chair and stared at me through thick eyelashes.

  “If that guy was down there, he’ll be gone by now,” he said. “We should wait and let Mrs. Tammi call. It is her apartment.”

  Flavia held two pieces of bread suspended over the toaster. She glanced first at her mother, then at me, and nodded in agreement.

  I’d left a note on Tammi’s door, but we heard her come in. When I went into the hall to meet her, I explained everything that had happened; how the man had broken in, and how I thought he was still in the basement. “We haven’t called the cops yet,” I added. “We were waiting for you. Do you want to do it now? I could talk to them.”

  Her face glazed over, as if I was really bugging her. “I’ll do it, Jess. I mean, it’s my apartment, right?”

  “You can’t go back there, Tammi,” I said. “It’s you he’s after! Do you want to stay with me?”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she rolled her eyes like I was the dumbest kid alive. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I have a gun.” She patted her purse. “My friend Terri lent it to me.”

  Carlos crowded into the doorway. “Show me?” he asked.

  Tammi glared at him and shook her head. “No,” she said.

  That night I slept in Mom’s room. There’s a door there too, with a window in it, just like at Tammi’s. The hall light was on, I’d put a hammer on the night-table beside me, and the phone was beside it, programmed to dial 911 at the push of a button. I was prepared for anything, even a murderer.

  I drifted in and out of sleep, fighting it, afraid to let go. Nightmares and flashbacks all twisted together like the strands of a French braid. I heard footsteps on the back stairs, someone tapping at a door, which opened, then closed again. I jumped awake, my heart thumping in my chest, but there was no one there, only the tail-end of a dream. I slept. Then something, or someone, was banging or maybe hammering; it was a familiar sound, one I’d heard before.

  I woke to sunlight, and the rich smells of coffee and bacon. Someone was knocking on the bedroom door.

  “Jess?” Raffi said. “Want breakfast?”

  “Sure. Give me a minute.”

  “Ten.”

  I snuggled back into Mom’s duvet and thought about the one nice thing that happened; Carlos, and my first kiss ever. I rubbed my mouth with my fingers, wondering how it felt to him, to his lips. Then I kissed the back of my hand, and pretended it was him. I wished he’d tongue-kissed me, because I couldn’t figure out how people did it, and whether it was disgusting or not, and there was no one I wanted to ask. Then I pulled the duvet over my head, and thought about him some more, and tried to figure out what we’d do to each other next. It was hard to believe that I finally had a boyfriend, but it felt wonderful. I could hardly wait to tell Kelly.

  “Jess,” Mom said. “I thought you wanted breakfast. Aren’t you hot under there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Absolutely. Cooking.”

  My mother had a cow, of course. A-pacing-up-and-down-the-liv-ing-room, clutching-her-elbows-with-her-opposite-hands cow. Not about Carlos and me, because you can’t get all upset about something you don’t even know about. What got her going was me being in Tammi’s apartment and the killer coming back. Not that I blamed her — it got me going too.

  “That’s it,” she roared. “No more babysitting!”

  She hadn’t been that upset since she and my father had their big fight when I was twelve. “No more babysitting?” I said. “What am I supposed to do for spending money?”

  “Use your head, less. No more babysitting for Tammi. Oh, I feel so guilty! I should never have let you go, never! You could have been k-k-killed!”

  Mom was so nice sometimes, but I wished she wouldn’t bawl, it made me feel guilty, like everything was my fault. I put my arm around her. “You couldn’t have known,” I said.

  CHAPTER 8

  When I passed the Orellanas’ door the next morning, I heard Flavia and Carlos inside getting ready for school, but I couldn’t wait for them. I had an appointment with the principal. I was jogging along Jameson, paying no attention to anyone, when I almost bumped into the tall skinny back of Jon Bell. As usual, he was alone.

  “Hey, Jess!” he called, as I sprinted by him. “What’s the rush?”

  I checked my watch, and slowed down. “Mrs. Carelli,” I said. “Can’t keep her waiting.”

  “Oh oh.”

  “No, it’s not like that. And she’s really nice.”

  “So if you aren’t in trouble, what’s ... or am I being too nosy?”

  “It’s sort of embarrassing,” I said. “I’m reporting someone for harassing me.”

  “The Roach?”

  My mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

  “I heard him the day you did your book report in English. I followed you into the hall. I wanted to say something, but you took off, so ... I didn’t. What he said to you was complete garbage. I mean, you’re not heavy at all. You look just right to me.”

  How do you answer someone who says you’re not fat when you know you are? “Uh, thanks,” I said.

  “You’re on your way to report him now? This minute?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want me to come? It might help. I heard everything he said.”

  I looked up at him, eyeball to eyeball, even though I had to stretch my neck to do it. “Wow!” I said. “Great!” I checked my watch again. “We’re a few minutes early. Do you want to stay outside?”

  “Sure.”

  We found an empty bench by the day-care playground. When Jon sat, his knees folded up just like a grasshopper’s. I slipped my knapsack off my shoulder, and leaned back, tilting my head to catch the sun. I was wearing tights, and a short skirt. I have nice legs. I crossed them.

  “How come you know Mrs. Carelli?” he said. “Have you reported the Roach before?”

  “No. I was in her office on the day of the murder, when a cop came to ask me to make a statement.” I looked at his face as we talked. One of the nice things about Jon is that he never tries to be cool. I uncrossed my legs and tucked them under the bench.

  “What murder?” he said. “The one a couple of weeks ago over on Telrose?”

  I nodded. “It was in the apartment underneath us. The whole thing’s pretty weird.”

  “Hey!” he said. “Could we talk about it sometime? I’m really interested in stuff like that.” Then he frowned. “Unless it makes you feel bad? I don’t want to make it seem like a joke.”

  I looked at him some more. “No, that would be good,” I said. I almost mentioned Flavia and Carlos, and Kelly, but I didn’t. Flavia and Carlos were too weird about the cops, and Kelly hardly even had time for me any more.

  “Hey, it’s time to go,” I said. “I don’t want to keep Mrs. Carelli waiting. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Absolutely.”

  I’d hadn’t told my mother about the Roach, so that evening when we were chopping vegetables for a stir-fry, I decided I’d better come clean.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” she said. “This is the same guy, isn’t it? The one who did all those awful things in public school?”

  I nodded. Ronny Roach has been making me upchuck my lunch since grade three. That was the year of the little pink plush jewelbox coffins. The dead mice inside had not died natural deaths, and they hadn’t been killed in mouse-traps either. There was too much dried blood
for that. One had its throat sliced straight across. The other was missing all four tiny feet.

  Ronny didn’t improve with age. In grade five someone caught him torturing a cat. In grade six he set fire to a Sri Lankan girl’s braid with a cigarette lighter. After that he was away for a while, locked up somewhere. When he came back for grade eight we were in the same class. That’s when I became his sworn enemy for life.

  It happened when I was waiting for my father to pick me up for what turned out to be one of our last every-second-weekend visits. I was sitting on the school steps, feeling really awful about my parents’ latest fight, when Natalie, a girl with waist-length black hair, came out the main door. Ronny Roach was just behind her.

  When they reached the sidewalk, a whole lot of things happened at the same time. Dad’s car pulled up at the curb. Ronny’s hands, holding a long thin pair of scissors that glittered in the late afternoon sun, darted towards the back of Natalie’s neck and started to hack off her hair somewhere around her ears. I jumped up and screamed blue murder.

  Natalie comes from India and because of her religion her hair had never been cut in her whole life, so it wasn’t just a beauty-destroying thing Ronny did, which would have been terrible enough, but something much, much worse.

  Ronny flung the scissors to the ground and took off down the street. My father called the police on his car phone. I picked up the big hunk of hair from the sidewalk and handed it back to Natalie, who was sobbing hysterically and trying to cover the shorn part of her head with her hands.

  Neither Natalie nor Dad could identify Ronny by name, but I could, and I did. So when he got sent to the Juvenile Detention Centre for the second time, he blamed me.